I had paid for every inch of it with the money I earned after selling my technology company, yet I allowed my husband Patrick Sullivan to enjoy the moment because he had spent the entire day smiling beside me for photographs and calling the place “our future.”
Two evenings later I stood at the wide kitchen island organizing closing documents when Patrick casually walked in and delivered news that immediately froze my hands.
“Mom and Dad are moving in with us,” he said in a relaxed tone that sounded as if he had announced dinner plans. “And my sister Melissa is coming too because she needs a fresh start after the divorce.”
I looked up slowly and asked, “Your sister who ended her marriage last month?”
Patrick leaned against the counter with an impatient expression and said, “Do not start complaining already.”
“I am not complaining,” I answered calmly. “I am asking why you made a decision about our house without speaking to me.”
He laughed once in a short unpleasant way and replied, “Our house? Natalie, this place belongs to me.”
My stomach tightened as I asked, “What exactly do you mean?”
